Farewelling my Aunt - that's my mother, holding me in her arms
I don’t know when or how I realised, but I noticed that I didn’t include any photos of my mother, my biological mother, in my photo gallery. When I discovered this, I felt a bit like someone who sends out the wedding invites only to realise too late that they’ve left a really important person from the guest list. Only, this was my mother, how bad am I?
Well, in some ways really awful, but her absence – unconscious – really – is a reflection of our complicated relationship. It was simply love/hate. Were my mother alive, she would be terribly hurt that I’d omitted her, but also laugh and pretend to understand. Then she’d bitch about me to my sister and grandmother. You have to laugh. That’s how it was.
So, I want to make up a little for my dreadful oversight and write about my mother, my Ima, Edna Ruth Rosenthal, who died on August 30, 2006, the same week as Steve Irwin – I know, because I wrote the equivalent of a eulogy for him (for the Courier Mail) the same day I wrote the one for my mother. That was a tough day.
In summary, my mother was a five foot tall, red-haired, blue-eyed, Israeli immigrant whom I lived with for my first 12 ½ years as well as an ex-soldier (medic in the Israeli army), and an ex- wife. Why do I mention that? After all, so many people are exes these days. 
Well, like most things my mother did, she didn’t do it by halves. My mother was married eight times. Yes, you read that correctly – eight – 8 – times. Marriages that spanned three continents and some very different men – an Israeli officer, Australians (including my dad), we think an Austrian, an American, and a New Zealander. There were religious men, abusive men, kind ones, nasty ones, patient and dishonest ones. She broke some hearts and had hers broken as well. She also had relationships with a couple of women – but they were over and above her marriages. I liked having two mums very much. She was also a shop-a-holic.
As her eldest daughter, I can admit I didn’t know her as well as I would have liked. That was partly due to my mother herself and partly because of the dreadful circumstances that drove us apart and kept us that way for far too many years. That, and the fact she migrated to the USA for the last 16 years of her life.
I didn’t speak to my mother for long periods as I struggled to understand some of the decisions she made around me, my sister and family. It was only as I grew older, wiser and probably more tolerant that I started to see what made my Ima tick – and I found I liked it – not enough to emulate it, but it helped me understand the woman she was. But it took me a long, long time.
Every person she encountered, she had a slightly different relationship with and that meant that each person knew something distinct about her. She was the master of reinvention – she would simply leave out parts of herself that made her uncomfortable or uneasy. She lived in the now. Sometimes, that omission involved me – hence my some of my problems with her. But, what I have also learned is that this tendency to elide or remove parts of her life make it so hard to draw a coherent portrait of my mother: the woman known variously as Edna Ruth Brotzen, Nadler, Adams, Davenport, Woitasec, Pettit (insert two names here- I don’t know them) and, finally, Rosenthal. But I am going to try…
Ima was a young mother – even when she was close to death, and aged by her cancer, she remained young in her heart and mind. Not in any immature way – but in that deliberate way that some people foster to always see life as a glass half-full, no matter what was meted out: divorce, loss of children, pets or husbands. That was Ima. She embraced life and she embraced change with a youthful enthusiasm that was so contagious. This was something my younger sister, Jenny, and I adored about her.
Ima and my son, Adam, 1986
Some of my earliest and happiest memories were tapping into her fountain of youth. I remember as kids, Jenny and I, lounging on Ima’s bed, giggling and eating; watching her get ready to go out somewhere with a boyfriend, her long eyelashes fluttering at us in the mirror while her shoulder-length auburn hair bounced across her shoulders. Our friends all thought our mother was a movie star (keeping in mind, Australia was very parochial in the sixties). She was certainly exotic, different and she had an accent.
It wouldn’t be right not to talk about Ima’s voice. It was so sharp, it could cut through frozen butter. Tending to get shrill when she didn’t get her own way, Ima could dig her heels in and be as stubborn as, well, a contended cat. For Jenny and me, our childhood is accompanied by the soundtrack of our mother’s voice and yes, like any mother, she could nag like a broken record.
I don’t think it’s my place to talk about our mother’s chequered past or what I have patched together through half-stories, rumours and hearsay. Needlesstosay, our mother’s life until she met her last husband, Gary, is more colourful than the beads she could string together and the lurid shirts she’d wear with flair: and that’s saying something. What I can reveal is she met Gary by answering an advertisement in a newspaper in the USA. It was not a classified ad either. There, I have said too much! Let your mind boggle, you won’t even come close!
Jenny and I both had very different relationships with our mother: Jenny and Ima were closer, but that’s as much my fault as Ima’s and do I have regrets about that?
Jenny, Ima and me - Red Rock Canyon, USA 2005
Yes, of course I do. But I’m not convinced that, considering how our lives panned out, it could have been any other way. But Jenny and I (like Ima), never got caught up in petty or silly jealousies over what was simply a fact of our relationship. We both loved Ima in our own way and were loved by her in return.
Ima always valued friends. Like the damned thousands of Boyd Bears (ceramic and soft), she would collect never to discard, even if they gathered some dust of neglect, she’d find her friends again and give the relationship a shine. Not always able to express in words or in emotions she was comfortable with how she felt, she would instead shower friends with gifts. She would purchase them to give as though they were a part of her in ways that others share secrets. I used to think it was a signifier of shallowness. I was so wrong. It was a sign of someone who learned, through her own life circumstances (abandoned by her mother – as she saw it – in Israel at the age of four, with her twin), a different and safer way of communicating. Recipients of gifts, no matter how they really feel about you, will generally show gratitude. She loved receiving that – and thanks: of basking in the glow of appreciation. Gifts (and re-gifting!) were the manifestation of her feelings. In some way, this was more lasting to her than memories, which fade or become warped with time and retelling (or omission!). So, whereas I once discarded her gifts, I now treasure the few I kept, no matter how easily they were given or how often – she meant them as signs of real affection.
I cannot write about my mother without mentioning the word shopping. Our mother pathologised the notion of retail therapy. She was the most wonderful shopping companion who turned what for me is a boring chore into a fun experience. I loved shopping with Ima – so did Jenny – and it will be hard when we’re next in Las Vegas (where she moved from New York) to shop without her. I think we’ll have to visit Ross’s the way pilgrims visit shrines.
Some of my mother's Boyd Bears
I’m sure her spirit is there – or in Walmart – scooping up specials and keeping an eye out for a bargain. For some reason, I imagined her last day on earth as one where she would be shopping in Ross’s and suddenly collapse – a case of shop till she drops. Sadly, that wasn’t to be.
Instead, our mother died at home, with her husband, Gary, not by her side, but on the computer where he usually was. Her cats were there, all her collectibles and, most importantly, her friends who also came and shared time with her – as it turned out, precious time.
My mother had a life that was harder than I think even I can begin to imagine – such loss and denial and such betrayal. Unfortunately, some of that was inherited by the next generation. But, she managed to rise above all that – partly because she never looked back and she refused to ever be a victim.
That’s how I choose to remember my mother; that’s how Jenny chooses to remember her too. Not as a woman with faults, but as a beacon of strength and courage, of endless humour and instant goodwill. She was a fighter and a friend; a wife, a mother and a good listener. As a fashion plate that reinvented the word style every season. She was a great cook (I didn’t know that until I was in my twenties) and a consummate shopper.
My memories are conflicted, but they’re rich and passionate. And so was our mother – rich in what’s important: family, friends, pets, two children that loved her for what in the end we
realised she was; a step-brother, Peter, who adored her,
Ima and Peter - she died just over a month later...
a half-brother, Gideon – still in Israel, a twin, Hannah (Peggy) who also grew to love her and eight husbands who, I’m sure have very different recollections of the woman who made their life heaven and hell on earth.
My mother is no longer with us in the corporeal sense, but her indomitable spirit lives on: in the aisles of Walmart, among the racks of Ross’s, they would be in her various collections, only her last husband sold them so perhaps they’re in what remains of her feisty, beautiful cats, but most of all, she’s in our hearts.
Shalom, my little Ima. I’m sorry about the photo gallery!
Ima and me in her backyard Las Vegas
This blog was inspired by a beautiful blog written by Josephine Penicott on the subject of mothers. See: www.talepeddler.blogspot.com/2010/02/chit-chat-wednesday-and-invisible
Killing Innocence
Feb 16, 2010
The news that a 13 year old boy fatally stabbed a 12 year old boy, Elliott Fletcher, in the toilet blocks of St Patrick’s, Shorncliffe, has shocked not just the families and community, but the entire nation. As the news broke and, later, the story was pieced together and assumptions made about the reasons for this tragedy, the immediate effect on the families involved, the school community and short-term consequences, people struggled to make sense of how two young people could have their lives ended through such a senseless act of extreme violence. For it’s not just Elliot’s life that finished that day – the young perpetrator’s has, to all intents and purposes, ended as well. A child himself, he now faces the most serious of criminal charges.
It is just so unbelievably tragic, and our hearts and sympathy go out to everyone involved. At the same time, however, many people, and the media especially, are looking to make sense of the senseless, understand what led to this act, and also to apportion blame. That’s what we tend to do during these crises – look for accountability. It helps us reach understanding and, eventually, closure. What’s clear is that this is not a ‘school’ problem as one parent stated, this is a ‘social problem’ and he’s right. So far, the media, popular culture, parents generally, the rise of violence, and lack of discipline have all been touted as responsible.
But in a case like this, no one person or situation can be blamed. On the contrary, the answer is complex – all of the above have, arguably, contributed to the events in the playground that resulted in one young life lost, another ruined. That’s why it’s important that, as a society, we start talking about what led to this from every angle if, for no other reason, than to try and ensure it doesn’t happen again.
For what it’s worth, I am going to try and do that now. I feel so saddened by this, so shocked and yet, sadly, not surprised.
It’s easy to blame the media for the rise in violence amongst young people. Every day, kids are bombarded with violent imagery from a plethora of sources. One study revealed that by the time a person turns 18, they would have witnessed 200,000 murders and that’s from TV alone. A combination of news broadcasts, even if they’re not actively watched, but passively run in the background, movies and TV shows all portray violence – sometimes in gruesome detail. Does this make our kids violent? Maybe. It certainly exposes them to it and makes the world appear a very scary place.
Just as young girls will look to various female idols and emulate the way they dress and behave, so too will boys. Carrying a weapon, whether it’s through fear, aggression or to assert a particular masculinity, is seen as a way of impressing and subduing peers and would-be foes – or it’s a way of turning someone into a victim and asserting power. Knives and other weapons are being used and reported as being used at an seemingly alarming rate in the media. In February, another Brisbane school boy was knifed. Every weekend, stabbings, glassings and shootings are occurring. Often alcohol fueled, but sometimes it’s just braggadocio getting out of hand. Just last week, a 45 year old Professor opened fire in a staff room, killing three colleagues and wounding three others, allegedly because she didn’t get permanency in her job. If adults can resort to violence to solve their problems, then why can’t young people? There’s the many shootings at schools in the USA and even Europe to contend with and process as well. As shocked as we are about these outcomes, they’re still reported ad nauseam and young minds absorb this.
There’s a strong argument to be made that we’re role-modeling this kind of behaviour in all sorts of overt and invidious ways – through news, music, cyberspace, popular culture and even our own responses to various situations. Think of the rise in ‘rage’ related incidents: there’s ‘road-rage’; ‘trolley rage’; ‘queue rage’ and so forth. If we can’t behave in a civil and respectful manner towards each other, how can we expect our kids to? The thing about ‘rage’ or repressed anger of any kind, is that it’s usually a signifier of fear. Angry people are often afraid. And these days we seem so angry – but perhaps that’s because, deep down, we’re really very afraid. That’s not surprising.
The media has constructed a world, society and local community where terrorists loom large, paedophiles are in the neighbourhood and every stranger is a potential danger. We are afraid of our own shadows – so are our children. Parents are anxious about letting their children leave the house; they worry about leaving them alone. Anxious people turn into scared people, turn into angry people – at any age – only the way these fears and anger are acted out changes and escalates.
But let me return to the media for a moment. What about video/internet games? Many people are holding them accountable for the rise in violence, saying that in these games not only is the violence and death graphic (which it is), but it’s rewarded and at the press of a button, the dead can rise and fight again. ‘Game over’ does not mean ‘life ended’ in these virtual worlds. There are very real concerns that kids can’t distinguish between the real world and the fantasy violence that’s portrayed on the screen.
Experts will tell you that at around the age of seven or eight, kids can distinguish between reality and fantasy. Other experts will tell you that it’s real world violence that a child is exposed to – eg. in the home and from the adults around him or her that will influence their own behaviours far more than anything they interact with on a screen. But there is a problem with this argument… what if a child only interacts with violence every time they turn to a ‘screen’ to entertain themselves? What if the time they spend with these screens is disproportionate to the time they spend interacting with other pursuits? What if the only popular culture and media they’re consuming is violent in nature? Surely, that must skew a child’s perception of the world and understanding of how people resolve problems, whether it’s real or imagined ones.
Then there’s the issue of kids accessing age-inappropriate material. So many young kids are playing games designed for the 15 plus market. Rated MA, their parents either buy them for their children or allow their kids to play them, after all, they’re harmless. For a 15 year old, maybe, but an eight year old? They are not harmless. They are yet another piece of a puzzle that paints a specific and scary picture of a world where violence not only reigns but is fun, is the only solution to problems and is rewarded. Parents need to wrest control of what their kids are accessing back from their children, their kids friends and even other parents. They need to set boundaries and stick to them, making sure that their age-appropriate and able to change as the children grow older and demonstrate responsibility.
There are very valid reasons that age recommendations are set around these kinds of violent games, but there’s evidence they’re being ignored. We have to ask, at what cost? Having said that, other experts argue that these types of games, when accessed at an age-appropriate level and when balanced with other activities, can be beneficial – not just for the fantasy violence, but cognitively as well.
And what about the issue of discipline? Well, I am sure when we discuss ‘discipline’, no-one is endorsing beatings and other corporal measures. Rather, it’s about ensuring that if a child does something wrong, there are appropriate consequences. Yet, talk to frustrated school teachers, parents and adults generally and what you find is that kids are not only being protected from consequences when they do something wrong (often by parents who swoop in and refuse to allow their child to be disciplined and/or are in denial that he or she has even done anything wrong) , they don’t even understand that there should be any. We’re raising a generation that don’t know how to take responsibility for their actions. This is what experts also mean when they talk about ‘cotton-wooling’ or kids.
But we’re a confusing old world. On the one hand, we have stringent policies about bullying, we’ve stripped sport of much of its healthy combativeness, we don’t even let little kids play super heroes at day care centres any more and we try to pretend that we all live together peacefully in a great big vat of vanilla yoghurt. But, on the other, we exhort violence as a solution, celebrate it in films, TV and video games. Fights between parents break out at sporting venues; some kids witness their parents engaged in physically and/or verbally very toxic battles. They’re not silly – they also sense emotional and psychological tension – not ‘fighting’ around the children does not work! Much better that children see the adults in their world argue and resolve it in amicable if not loving ways. But it’s no wonder kids are confused. Not allowed to use ‘harsh words’ for fear of upsetting someone or being accused of bullying, they resort to psychological warfare on the internet or mobile phone or extreme violence to express themselves and their frustrations and angst. Healthy expressions of anger, emotional and physical are natural and beneficial in certain contexts – please note, I said ‘healthy.’ I am not talking about abuse. But the ability to vent, to ‘let it out’ is important. I believe we are stifling this in society and it’s NOT healthy.
So, did any of the above cause this shocking tragedy? I don’t know. But it’s hard not to believe that they all didn’t contribute in some way.
We need to be talking to our kids about all this and to each other and seeking solutions to the growing violence in our community. We need to come together, work as one, not let ourselves be torn apart by fear, rage and suspicion. We have to do this now, for the sake of the future, for the sake of our children.
And for the sake of the families at the heart of this tragedy.
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